 | The magic fountain |  |
97
TWELFTH OF AUGUST IN CRAVEN.
No more of fair maids with their dark locks or yellow,
Their eyes of all colours from sable to blue,
Their lips of all tints from the pale to the mellow,
Their cheeks of all rose-hues that Fancy e'er drew;
No more of the syllables—fair—ripe—and raven—
I've rhymed them, and chimed them, again and again;
There are sounds all abroad on the breezes of Craven,
To waken a brief, but a rapturous strain.
Their eyes of all colours from sable to blue,
Their lips of all tints from the pale to the mellow,
Their cheeks of all rose-hues that Fancy e'er drew;
No more of the syllables—fair—ripe—and raven—
I've rhymed them, and chimed them, again and again;
There are sounds all abroad on the breezes of Craven,
To waken a brief, but a rapturous strain.
Hark! hark! the thick echoes from Pendle come loudly;
Quick answer is given by Barden's dark fells;
High Pennigent hears to his green top, and proudly
And gaily replies to the chorus of dells—
For the dells are made vocal from Arncliff to Addingham,
Malham, by tarn and by cove, is awake;
Awake are her moor-game, with other sounds madding 'em,
Other than ripple of stream or of lake!
Quick answer is given by Barden's dark fells;
High Pennigent hears to his green top, and proudly
And gaily replies to the chorus of dells—
For the dells are made vocal from Arncliff to Addingham,
Malham, by tarn and by cove, is awake;
Awake are her moor-game, with other sounds madding 'em,
Other than ripple of stream or of lake!
98
It is shot upon shot, it is death upon death too,
And (I get into poetry!) flash upon flash;—
Now were I a Bard, I should here lend my breath to
Pathetic lament, and all that sort of trash.
But I hate all their cant and their whine hypocritic,
And will bet every guinea these stanzas are worth,
That send them a brace, they shall turn analytic,
And cut up with the gusto of famous Kit North!
And (I get into poetry!) flash upon flash;—
Now were I a Bard, I should here lend my breath to
Pathetic lament, and all that sort of trash.
But I hate all their cant and their whine hypocritic,
And will bet every guinea these stanzas are worth,
That send them a brace, they shall turn analytic,
And cut up with the gusto of famous Kit North!
Yet, to do myself justice, and let people know it,
When throng the gay sportsmen on mountain and moor,
Or the chace meets my eye—I've enough of the poet
To turn to the sports and the huntings of yore.
O those were the days! when in yonder green valley
From Beauty's fair hand was the falcon let fly,
And along that hill side the bold hunters would sally,
Their bugles in sound, and their stag-hounds in cry!
When throng the gay sportsmen on mountain and moor,
Or the chace meets my eye—I've enough of the poet
To turn to the sports and the huntings of yore.
O those were the days! when in yonder green valley
From Beauty's fair hand was the falcon let fly,
And along that hill side the bold hunters would sally,
Their bugles in sound, and their stag-hounds in cry!
99
Then Skipton her Clifford, and Warkworth her Percy,
And Gisburn her Lister sent forth to the game,
With hundreds beside, whose brave names in my verse I
Could never arrange—were my meed to be fame.
Suffice it—wherever the brown heath is waving,
Their heirs in descent pour the death-shot to-day;
And long may the Halls and the Moorlands of Craven
Boast their virtues when grave, and their pleasures when gay!
And Gisburn her Lister sent forth to the game,
With hundreds beside, whose brave names in my verse I
Could never arrange—were my meed to be fame.
Suffice it—wherever the brown heath is waving,
Their heirs in descent pour the death-shot to-day;
And long may the Halls and the Moorlands of Craven
Boast their virtues when grave, and their pleasures when gay!
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